


Sacrilegous

by Snowfaun



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Angst, Multi, Nausea, War Mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-06 00:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5395535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowfaun/pseuds/Snowfaun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing crueller than being worshipped and being feared.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacrilegous

They pointed at Robin as they pointed at a bright full moon, high in the night sky, pushing their heads down, down, _down_.

When she first notices, she smiles and reads and says she doesn’t know why they’re so happy she’s there. She laughs. (She knows they’re not happy she’s there.) Her hair falls around her face and the lines on the book suddenly seem too blurry. Lissa stares from a distance, holding the staff as a holy thing, she catches a glare and smiles back. Robin wishes she knew better.

The war comes and the silent nights go by and by and by. Nobody talks to Robin but a weak voice fills her head, teasing her. A hand goes up and down, pressed against her own chest. She needs and wants and she _has_ to know if there’s something beating inside, something as small and red as a skinned rat. Chrom passes by her side and murmurs something about the winning and the returning, but he holds his words and his hand and he holds his lips so tight he doesn’t even mention the fear crawling across his tent when he cries at night because the moon is so high in the sky he can’t even bear to look at it.

At dawn, Robin thinks of demons. She thinks of skin tasted of wine and fallen red drops, dripped of divinity. She thinks of a prophet and their messiah and the godlike beings waiting for them with a hungry so terrible they would eat them whole. Libra has soft fingers, Robin knows that well, soft fingers and rough words which belong to a man willing to burn his prophet down if the sky asks for it; if the war, like a god, demands blood. His anguish prayer collapses on her wrists, he doesn’t say a thing, but he _knows_.

The day before the battle a virulent silence fills the camp as Robin walks across it. He sees Lissa holding Maribelle’s hand as a holy thing, Chrom has his eyes opened and red and they remind her of a broken little mouse, Libra plucks the feathers from a dead bird. She feels the heaves climbing up her throat, the nausea before the funeral or the wedding or a ceremony full of false hymns.

Yet the moon cannot overflow with pus, first it must be wounded.

“It’s raining”, she says, “that’s not a good thing.”  
“We’re ready, commander”, a soldier answers, she doesn’t recognize his face or his name, “we can deal with some water.”

She feels the urge to act kind and nice with him, she gently touches his shoulder and recalls Chrom’s words begging her to make the soldiers think that they matter, that they will be remembered. Then, she must only wait until they die and she will be able to stop pretending. It is a small price to pay, but the moon is fading and her head is all fizzy.

“The rain is always a bad thing in battle”, her voice sounds as a piece of rotten flesh, bitter and sweating, “it erases the blood and carries away the corpses. One can forget how real war looks like.”

Libra’s words come as a distant wave of worms worshipping a shrine of lies.  
“One can never forget that.”


End file.
